Warm Hearts (6 page)

And then … And then they'd make long, sweet, passionate love.

She drew in a wispy breath at the thought, then held that breath in her lungs when the light in his apartment came on. His window was already wide open. Either he'd been home earlier or he was more trusting than she. Whatever the case, she could easily follow his movements, which she did with more fascination than guilt.

He wore a body-molding tank top, a pair of running shorts and sneakers, and his skin glistened with sweat. He was tall indeed, she discovered with pleasure. His head well exceeded the top of the refrigerator, from which he was taking a drink. His back muscles flexed with the action; they weren't at all bunchy but were nicely formed and well toned. As he straightened, held the can to his mouth and tipped his head back for a drink, she saw that his shoulders were broad without being inflated and his torso tapered to wonderfully narrow hips.

The tingles were off and running. She was a little appalled, because she'd never been one to sit ogling men. But those tingles felt so good and healthy that she gave them free rein. More than that, she encouraged them as she mentally transferred the body in her sights to that cabin in Maine … to that bed … to that exquisitely gentle but fiercely satisfying lovemaking.

When Tall-Dark-and-Handsome turned toward the window, she held her breath. She knew she should move away, but she couldn't. The best she could do was avert her eyes for a minute, but, with a will of its own, that gaze quickly returned to watch while he flipped a newspaper open on the table and stood reading.

The
Wall Street Journal.
She couldn't possibly see, of course, but she knew it was that. No stuffy journals dealing with medicine or education or psychology for him. He'd be one to broaden himself.

But she didn't really want to think of his mind at the moment, when his body was hers for the looking. Gorgeous. That was all there was to it. He was gorgeous. His hair wasn't as long as she'd hoped, but it was well mussed and clearly sweaty. His chin—only one, not even a hint of a double—was tucked neatly to his chest, which was hugged so snugly by his tank top that she wondered at its purpose. It had to be to absorb sweat, she decided, because if he'd worn it for propriety's sake, he'd failed. There was nothing remotely proper about the way he looked in the thing, or the way it met his low-riding shorts … or the way those shorts cupped his sex.

When a shiver coursed from her shoulders to her knees, she wondered if she'd gone too far. Shivers—in the heat? But, oh, Lord, he was combing a handful of fingers through his hair now, and the way he raised his arm, the shadow beneath, the delineation of his collarbone, the prominent veins on the inside of his forearm—more shivers, delicious ones, frustrating ones.

Tearing herself from the window, she made a beeline for the table, sat back down and clutched her pen. Only after the fact did it occur to her that she should have been more subtle. If the abrupt movement had attracted his attention, he'd be watching her now. She cast a glance at the lamp. To turn it off would defeat her purpose; she really had to work. It didn't light much of the room, which had suited her fine in terms of the heat, but it did light
her
, and if he was looking across the courtyard as she'd been doing seconds before, he'd have a clear view.

Donning an expression of intense concentration, she began to write.
Client is deeply into fantasizing. It's a rather new experience for her. Either she's been too busy to do it before or she didn't have the need. I suspect that it's a combination of both. Then again, she may have repressed the need. Or she may feel herself above it. Counselors do that sometimes.

Slowly setting down the pen, she carefully tore the sheet of paper from its pad, folded it in half, then in quarters, and tucked it into the space between the small clay pot that held her creeping Charlie and the slightly larger and more brightly colored pot in which the clay one sat.

With that touch of self-analysis out of the way, she settled down to work in earnest. Discipline had always been her strong suit, and she called on it now to guide her through the reports that she wanted to have done by morning. From time to time she paused for a drink, or to brush dots of moisture from her nose, or to massage the muscles of her lower back.

By eleven, she was ready for a break. Unfolding herself from the chair, she arched her back and stretched, then raised both hands to the top of her head. When the phone rang, she slowly looked its way.

Not exactly the break she had in mind, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

“Hello?”

“I didn't wake you, did I?”

“Of course not. What's wrong, Elliot?” The flatness of his voice, an about-face from the night before, was a dead giveaway.

“Celebration's over. Did I say that this developer would be tough to work with? Make that impossible. We spent the whole day arguing with him about the architect's specs. They're absurd. Half of the stuff he's got listed can't be bought.”

“Why did the architect list them?”

“Because he's an arrogant S.O.B. who did his training in Milan. Well, hell, we can't go to Milan for materials. Not if we want to make any profit on this thing.”

“The developer must know that.”

“Sure he knows it. But he doesn't give a damn about our profit. He's out for himself.”

“Oh, Elliot, there must be some way to make him understand,” she said. Grabbing a nearby dish towel, she began to dust the peninsula on which the phone sat. When Elliot said nothing, she remarked, “At least you have partners to argue on your side. It's not your responsibility alone.”

“That's the problem,” Elliot said in a quiet voice.

“What is?”

“I was the one who came up with the bid on these particular specs.”

“You bid on the wrong materials?” She couldn't believe he'd do something so stupid. Then again, he'd been desperate to land the job.

“I bid on materials that I felt were of equivalent quality. The developer knew what I'd priced, but now he's decided that he wants the originals.”

“Can you charge him for the difference?”

“Not with the contract already signed.”

“So what will you do?”

“Either absorb the difference or fight.”

Caroline's hand stilled on the cloth. She didn't feel like dusting. It was too hot. She sighed. “I guess you have a decision to make, then.”

“I'm damned either way. On top of that, we found out today that we'll have to do a whole lot of blasting if we want to put in an underground parking lot.”

“You didn't know that before?” she asked. By the time he'd launched into a long story about topographical charts, she was seeking diversions. While she'd never found Elliot's trials and tribulations fascinating, they'd been interesting enough. It was his petulant tone that put her off now. That and the heat.

She ought to get a small air conditioner, she decided. But where to put it? She couldn't set it in one of the French windows; that would ruin their look, not to mention the luxury of being able to open both wide. The only other window was in the bathroom, so a window unit was out. She could have one installed in the wall, but that would take major construction, which she doubted her landlords would condone.

Hell, she didn't want an air conditioner. She wanted a magic carpet.

“It'll probably be awful,” Elliot was saying. “So give me something to look forward to. I can pick you up at work and we'll do something wild.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“But we have plans for Saturday.”

“We can do something tomorrow, too.”

Shifting the phone to the other ear, she rubbed her stiff shoulder and leaned back against the counter. “I can't, Elliot. I'm so far behind with paperwork that I'll be late at the office.”

“Name a time and I'll come.”

“If I don't get my work done, I'll have to spend part of Saturday at it, and I've already got a list a mile long of things to do for Saturday.”

“I need you, Caroline.”

It was a cheap shot. He was playing on her softness, and actually, she couldn't blame him. It usually worked. But not tonight. She was tired of being a doormat. “Elliot, I can't. Really. Saturday night has your name on it in big red letters.”

“If I didn't know better, I'd think you were two-timing me.”

“With work?” she asked. Her eye crossed the courtyard.

“With a man. Are you seeing someone else?”

Tall-Dark-and-Handsome moved through her line of vision. She couldn't see what he was doing, because he was fast moving out of sight, but a hunter-green towel was draped around his neck. He must have been wiping off sweat.

She gave a helpless little moan. At its sound, she bit her lip, then realized that it wasn't so bad; the moan could be taken two ways. “I don't have time to see two men,” she answered, realizing only after the fact that her words could be taken two ways, too.

Elliot took both moan and words to his benefit. “Good. I'm feeling possessive.”

She was careful to stifle the moan this time. “When should I expect you Saturday?”

“I'll give you a call during the day.”

“Better tell me now,” she warned in as teasing a tone as she could muster. “I'll be running all day, and I don't want you to have to talk to the machine.”

“Okay. How does six-thirty sound?”

“Fine, Elliot. See you then.”

She hung up the phone and slowly turned to face the window. As slowly, she began to walk, stopping only when her thighs touched the window seat. Lowering herself to her customary position against the jamb, she wrapped her arms around her legs and looked over the cars and trees to the opposite loft.

From what she could see, it was set up almost identically to hers. The living area was in the foreground. Beyond it and taking up most of the wall to the left of the front door was the kitchen. To the right of the door was the sleeping area.

The similarities to her own place ended there. His furniture was of a soft brown leather and distinctly masculine, while hers was upholstered in a bright floral print that favored pale greens and pinks. His kitchen table was square and lacquered in a dark shade of tan with chairs of leather and chrome, while her table was round and its chairs of matching light birch. And while her bed was a double and wore a quilt to match her sofa, his was king-sized and covered with … covered with … a jumble of sheets.

She smiled. He was a slob. His bed wasn't the only thing in a state of disarray. Mail littered the peninsula by the door. Magazines and newspapers were strewn on the coffee table in the living area. A suit jacket, replete with tie, had been left draped over the leather side chair. And she swore she could see the very tip of a pile of dishes in the sink.

If he thought she was going to clean up after him, he had another think coming. Still, there was something appealing about his mess. It suggested that he was laid-back, and she liked that. Ben had been a compulsive cleaner, and the compulsiveness had carried over into other aspects of his life. He'd been ultraorganized, both at work and at home, and punctual to the extreme of sitting in his car until the stroke of eight, if that was the time they were to meet another couple for dinner.

Tall-Dark-and-Handsome wasn't hung up that way. He didn't stand on ceremony. He was spontaneous and took enjoyment from the sheer act of living. She decided that his apartment looked more lived-in than messy and she liked that, too.

Just then, the object of her speculation came into view. She clutched her knees tighter against the impulse to hide from sight, for she couldn't do that. It was too late. He'd come to lean against the window and was looking straight at her.

Her toes curled. She began to tingle. A knot of excitement formed in her chest and worked its way to her throat, making each breath an effort.

Gone were the tank top and running shorts. The towel that had earlier been draped around his neck now swathed his hips. He'd come from the shower. She didn't ask herself how she knew that the moisture on his skin wasn't sweat. She couldn't possibly tell the difference from where she sat. But she knew.

His body shone. For a fleeting second she imagined that it was wreathed by a halo, but she caught herself on that particular bit of fantasy. He wasn't a saint. Lord, she didn't
want
a saint. She wanted a man, just a man, sweet idiosyncrasies and all.

He didn't nod his head or lift a hand. There was no movement except the slow, barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest.

Sweat trickled down her cheek to her jaw. Her skin grew warmer, this time from within. She had the split-second vision of her body sparking, then disintegrating into a little puff of smoke. Before the vision had passed, she knew she had to move.

Turning her head first, she very carefully pushed herself from the seat. As calmly, she crossed to the kitchen table, neatly returned her papers to the briefcase, then switched off the light. Knowing that he could no longer see, she gave vent to the tiny tremors in her limbs and less steadily pulled back the quilt on her bed and stretched out atop the smooth sheets.

She didn't look back at the window. Her head was turned away, eyes closed. But the last images to register behind those lids before she fell asleep were of a cool cascade of water, a bar of Irish Spring and a hunter-green towel lying discarded on the floor.

3

Brendan Carr was bewitched. That was the only conclusion he could reach when at the oddest moments of the day his thoughts turned to Sweet-and-Sexy. He'd come to think of her as that. The name fit. There was a sweetness to her—in the lyrical way she moved her hands, the girlish way she gathered her hair into a ponytail, the graceful way she roamed her apartment. He might have called her innocent, for he imagined he saw that, too, but sexiness overrode it.